


Say Cheese

by mrs_d



Series: Dead Ends [2]
Category: due South
Genre: Banter, Case Fic, Cheese, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 05:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11684949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: “Earth to Fraser!” Ray is shouting. “Yo, cheese-guy, you listening to me?” [originally written 2007]





	Say Cheese

**Author's Note:**

> Behold, my first ever fanfiction!

I find it strange that a detective as resourceful as Stanley Raymond Kowalski — or Ray Vecchio, as he must be called — will so often lose his temper, particularly at me. Nonetheless, I’ve come to expect the unexpected from the blonde, wiry detective, including glasses and toothpicks, curse words and winks.

Therefore, when I volunteer us for a case involving a break-in at the Cheese Boutique instead of the latest homicide, I know that I will hear about it. Sure enough, only seconds after climbing into the black Ford sedan (sadly, a rather poor substitute for Ray Vecchio’s beloved Riviera), Ray Kowalski takes a deep breath and begins.

“Fraser. Are you trying to ruin my career here?” He turns the ignition viciously and speeds out of the precinct lot.

His career? I muse. This is an unusual angle from Kowalski, who told me very soon after meeting me that he never wanted to be cop at all. (Though he really is very good at it.) I had heard complaints about my apparent threat to the integrity of a detective’s career from the real Ray Vecchio several times, however; perhaps the new Ray had done some homework and was practicing his undercover skills. Somehow I doubted it, though.

“Earth to Fraser!” Ray is shouting. “Yo, cheese-guy, you listening to me?”

“Ray,” I begin, but I am interrupted, as usual.

“Seriously, Fraser: what were you thinking?”

“Ray—”

“Oh no, it’s all ‘Detective Vecchio and I would be _glad_ to take the cheese case, thank you kindly, LEFtenant.’ Goddamn Cheese Boutique, when I could’ve been—”

“Ray, I thought that—”

“That homicide could’ve made my career, Fraser!” I note the repetition of my name and the word ‘career.’ Strange, indeed. “You have no right to speak for me. You don’t even have jurisdiction here!”

I expel a short, irritated sigh. “Ray, if you would just listen—”

“No, I will not just listen.”

I purse my lips, hoping to placate him through silence. Diefenbaker, however, is not as willing to yield. He begins grumbling right away, using some of his favourite profanities. Appalling. Dief is becoming more parrot-like every day, picking up Chicago’s vocabulary almost as quickly as he did its penchant for fast food. I resist the impulse to reprimand him, though, fearing that the sound of my voice will bring about a resurgence of Ray’s anger.

No doubt encouraged by my lack of discipline, Dief continues his steady stream of curse-laden complaints. Not for the first time since Ray Kowalski’s unforeseen and unforgettable arrival, I wonder to whom the wolf has truly bonded. He has changed these last several weeks: his complaints have grown louder and longer; his addiction to junk food has ballooned out of proportion; and he has developed a habit of napping rather than hunting when we go to the park.

“What’s his problem, Fraser?”

A snippy retort about how my wolf is merely copying him springs to mind, but I bite my tongue. “He doesn’t like cheese,” I reply shortly. This isn’t entirely false; like many wolves, Diefenbaker has never been overly fond of dairy (unless it is smothering ground beef patties or pepperoni pizza, of course.)

“Yeah, well, me neither. In fact, I hate cheese.” Ray enforces this simple, bewildering statement by flooring the accelerator as an upcoming traffic light turns amber. I notice that the Ford’s wheels cross the stop line after the light changes from amber to red but say nothing given Ray’s touchy mood. Instead, I comment on his hatred of cheese.

“I didn’t know that, Ray.” Dief murmurs the same from over my shoulder.

“I tend not to talk about it, okay? So drop it.”

I drop it.

With a screech, Ray parks the car (illegally) in front of the Cheese Boutique. The front window is broken, draped with yellow crime scene tape, and two patrol officers — uniforms, Ray would call them — stand before it, watching us warily.  Ray is flashing his badge and heading inside before I have fully extricated myself from the vehicle. Dief clambers out onto the sidewalk behind me, mumbling a query.

“I think it’s best we leave it alone,” I mutter.

He stops, cocks his head, and asks another question, this one in regard to stopping for pizza later.

“You ask him,” I reply. “Make sure you specify no extra cheese.”

The officers at the yellow tape nod as we approach, lifting it to allow us entry. Dief trots ahead,  his stomach apparently filled with hope. I remove my Stetson as I cross the threshold.

After the bright sun, the interior of the shop seems bluish and dim, so it takes me a moment to see the dairy confections on display. The exterior walls are lined with brightly lit refrigerated shelves featuring boxes of cheese, wine, and various fruits. The back wall seems to feature multiple varieties of crackers. The far right corner has a closed door marked for employees only. A mahogany island in the very centre of the shop commands attention, though the cash register and a tray of cubed cheese samples — smoked gouda, if my nose can be trusted — seem forlorn and abandoned.

I hear Ray laugh, a welcome sound. He is leaning against the left side of the  island, speaking to someone who can only be our witness, Cheese Boutique employee Ms. Ruby Georgia. Her back is to me, her blonde hair like a waterfall down her slender form, almost touching her rounded bottom, which is tightly swaddled in pale blue denim.

I scowl. Surely someone working in food services should be wearing a hair net.

Ray’s eyes drift over the woman’s shoulder to meet mine, and, for once, his message is clear: _Back off, Mountie_. I haven’t seen that one for a while. Thankfully, this time there is no imminent danger of Stella or bombs. At least... I scan the room. There doesn’t seem to be.

So I back off, admiring a display of black grapes, listening to Ray chuckle again.

“I think I’ve got all I need right now, so you just go on home for the day. I’ll call you if we have any more questions.”

Then, as if it’s an afterthought (very subtle, Ray, I think, rolling my eyes a little): “Here’s my card. Cell number’s on the back if you can’t reach me at the station. Gimme a shout if you, uh, need anything. At all, okay?”

I wonder if he winks at her but resist the urge to turn around and see.

Instead, I examine the cheese for sale. There are small cling-wrapped packages of three slices; larger packages containing a dozen; trays of cubed cheese, such as one might find at a party; and then large boxes that contain whole or partial wheels. The price of these large quantities quite frankly astonishes me; I had no idea that cheese could be so expensive. Curious now, I pull several boxes out of the cooler, checking the variation in price between different types.

At the very back, I discover a box that is empty. It claims to have contained a wheel of the very same smoked gouda offered as a sample beside the cash register, but the box has no smell.

“Find anything?” I hear from behind me.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Fraser, do you have to talk to the wolf in public?”

I whirl, still clutching the empty box. Ray is standing close behind me — invading what some would jocularly label my ‘personal bubble’ — with a look of exasperated embarrassment. Diefenbaker rushes to my defence, protesting that he has every right to be spoken to in public and to say differently would be violation of American civil liberties, which Ray ought to know as an officer of—

“Are you done?” Ray cuts him off. Dief looks up at me for support, but I say nothing. With a huff, the wolf heads toward the back door. Ray follows him, and I Ray.

It opens as we approach, and a heavyset man emerges, wearing a black apron over his shirt and tie. His eyes narrow at Diefenbaker.

“That dog can’t be in here,” he says curtly.

“He’s a wolf,” snaps Ray. “And who the hell are you?”

“I’m the manager, thank you very much.”

“Well, you’re welcome very much, but I don’t think so. Andy’s the manager.”

Before I can ask how Ray knows this, the heavyset man is speaking again.

“Andy retired last year. And it’s not just me objecting to dogs here. There are health code violations—”

“Yeah, and the broken glass everywhere, that’s not a concern?”

The manager steps forward, and so do I.

“Pardon me, sir,” I begin, addressing the manager while surreptitiously blocking Ray from his sight. “My name is Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP. I first came to Chicago—”

I can suddenly feel Ray’s scorching glare at my back.

“—but that’s not important right now. What is important is that Diefenbaker, my half-wolf, is very well-trained, often crucial to a successful investigation. I assure you, he has no interest in consuming cheese, and he’ll not be any trouble.”

Ray makes a tiny noise behind me, a small exhalation that warms my neck ever so slightly. I edge to the right. “This is my partner, Detective Raymond Vecchio of the Chicago Police Department. He will be handling your case. With my assistance,” I add hastily.

The manager appraises me, taking in my uniform. “How can a Mountie assist—”

“Never mind,” says Ray. He seems calmer as he extends his hand. As the manager takes it, Ray grunts something that might be an apology, and the manager gives a sharp jerk of his chin that might be an acknowledgement of said apology.

Honestly, American rituals of masculinity leave me flummoxed on the best of days.

Diefenbaker, feeling less than cordially welcome, leaves, choosing to stand guard beside the patrol officers in front of the broken window. I move behind the manager, who is introducing himself to Ray as Peter DuBois (I wince inwardly as he pronounces it ‘DeBoyz’), and enter the back room. As I expected, it is a combined storage, office, and kitchen space, complete with industrial-grade cold storage units, a personal computer, and many shelves of boxes similar to the one I suddenly realize I am still carrying. I begin to turn back, but then I notice a small number 10 written in the top right corner of the box in pencil. Had the other cheese boxes had this detail? I close my eyes, concentrating on the memory of passing them through my hands.

Darn. I had been so focused on satisfying my idle curiosity regarding the price of cheese that I had not made mental notes regarding the presence of other numbers on the boxes. Perhaps no other boxes have this number. I flip through the nearest stack of unfolded cheese boxes. None seem to have a number written on them in pencil. Truly puzzled now, yet also pleased to have found a potential clue, in however an inadvertent  manner, I place the gouda box on the chest freezer to my left and open it.

Curious. There is no circle of grease that would indicate the box had once held cheese.

I hold the box up in an attempt to better shed light on its interior, wishing I had my magnifying glass or a flashlight. At last, I see it. There, tucked into the creases, a small amount of... something, hard to see against the white cardboard. I lick my right index finger and slide it along the crease, collecting the substance. I then raise it to my mouth, glad that Ray isn’t present to grimace or scold me.

The taste is alarmingly bitter, with the peculiar, unpleasant tang that accompanies baking soda. I move my tongue within my mouth. Peculiar indeed. It seems that—

Oh, dear.

“Got yourself into a pickle, haven’t you, Son?”

I glare at my newly appeared father.

“I’m realizing now how much I’ve failed you as a mentor.”

I roll my eyes, turning back to the door into the shop, but he re-materializes in front of it, blocking my path.

“Drugs, Son. Should have taught you more about drugs. All you need is a little snow, some goat’s milk, a willow branch, and an open flame. We could wrap this case up before lunch. I’ll tell the Yank.”

He turns and disappears. I mentally thank the heavens above before pushing through the door.

Ray and Mr. DuBois are now behind the cash register with their backs to me. I purposefully let the door bang a little on my way out. Ray, ever observant, fails to notice.

Mr. DuBois is complaining loudly about customers being upset because he doesn’t deliver party platters. I have been working with Ray long enough to know that he is reading Mr. DuBois more than listening to him. I move to the position where Ray interviewed Ms. Georgia earlier, so I am closer to him than to the manager. Hopefully I can get Ray to do what I need him to do without triggering Mr. DuBois’s acute stress response. If only Diefenbaker were facing the right way: I could mouth my plan to him, get him to guard the Cheese Boutique manager from the other side of the island.

Ray glances at me, then does a double take. “What?” he asks in a very low voice.

I swallow and attempt to manipulate my face to tell him something’s wrong: tight-lipped smile, short, rapid blinks, a jerk of my head toward the front door.

His eyes widen, then narrow. I think he thinks I’m having a seizure.

I gesture to Mr. DuBois with my chin, then tap my wrists together as if they are handcuffed.

He glances over at the manager, still droning away, then back at me. He raises his hands in frustrated confusion. “What?” he whispers again, a little more forcefully.

We really need to work on our non-verbal communication. Perhaps I could teach Ray some rudimentary semaphore.

Then, something triggers in my memory from the aftermath of our adventure in the graveyard with Marcus Ellery (or, rather, the lack thereof). It was a signal, a moment of shared connection between Ray and Lieutenant Welsh. It seems as good a sign as any, especially given my discovery.

I jerk my chin in Mr. Dubois’s direction again and touch my right nostril with a fingertip, mime inhaling. Ray is the picture of confusion for another second before I see in his eyes that he’s with me. I am flooded with relief as he springs into action.

As usual, his grace astonishes and impresses me. He thumbs his nose and winks, and then he is telling Mr. DuBois that he’d better close up for the day, that he’s really, terribly sorry, but it would be best for him to finish giving his statement down at the precinct. Ray begins steering him toward the door with a strong, long-fingered hand at Mr. DuBois’s elbow.

“But the samples,” Mr. DuBois is protesting.

Ray twists to throw me a glance. “Fraser?”

I nod and move the tray to one of the refrigerated shelves.

“No problem, Mr. DuBois, my partner’s taking care of it. He’s Canadian, he’d never let a good platter of cheese go to waste. You know, cheese is really rare up there...”

I open my mouth, but then I remember, and it’s too late anyway because Ray is sending Mr. DuBois with the two patrol officers, holding one of them back for a moment to give instructions.

Dief wanders over and looks up at me with rapt attention. _Oh, now you’re prepared to listen_ , I mouth at him.

He doesn’t reply.

The patrol car pulls away, and Ray spends a moment on his cellular telephone requesting another unit before approaching me.

“Drugs, Fraser? What do you got?”

“Cocaine,” I tell him.

He blinks.

My father appears beside me. “Come on, Yank, it’s not that difficult. Don’t you people have a war on these sorts of things? Not that that’s anything new, you’ve always declared war on abstract foes, like tyranny and—”

“Dad, please,” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. I am grateful that Ray can’t understand what I’m saying.

“Fraser, what is wrong with your voice?”

I reach for the notepad still in his left hand.

He pulls back as if I might burn him. “Hey—” he cries.

I roll my eyes and mime writing.

“Oh.” He hands me the pad and pen. I notice that he is careful not to touch my hands with his, but I push the observation aside. Sometimes I wish I could stop being so attentive.  

 _Cocaine_ , I write on a blank page and hold it up for him to see.

“Cocaine?” he repeats. “Shit.”

I nod. _My mouth has gone numb_ , I add.

He actually snorts with laughter. “No kidding?”

I shake my head. _Topical anesthetic._

His blue eyes widen. “How did you—?”

I shrug my shoulders as much as I can without decapitating myself on my starched collar.

“Fraser, are you telling me you—” Then he rolls his head back and speaks to the sky. “You licked it, didn’t you?”

His eyes meet mine for an instant before he looks away and shakes his head. “Crazy Mountie,” he mutters, “you’re gonna get me fired.”

His hand goes to the back of his neck, and he walks in the direction of the car. A moment later, he is pulling his phone out of his jacket pocket again and making another call.

I feel helpless in my guilt. I want to go back inside and scour the shop for more clues, but it occurs to me that the trace amounts of cocaine I inadvertently consumed may have been the only evidence of drug trafficking in the store, and we don’t have a warrant to conduct a more thorough investigation.    

“You know, son,” I hear behind me, and I choose to walk away, back to where Ray is pacing before the car.

“Yeah,” Ray is saying. “Get Stella on it. Search warrant. Possible possession, trafficking.”

I experiment a little, moving my tongue. So bizarre to lose sensation in this way. Suddenly I realize that Ray has closed his phone and is staring at me. The resemblance to his namesake is uncanny; the expression is almost identical to the one Ray Vecchio gave me the first time he saw me taste something off the ground. Then Ray laughs, the sound abrupt and unexpected like the lurch of cracking glacial ice under my feet.

“Only you, Fraser,” Ray says again, shaking his head. “Only you could investigate a cheese store robbery and discover a drug smuggling ring.”

I shrug, and then I’m laughing, too, because it seems our fight is over. Ray turns back to the store, ducks under the yellow tape again, and takes a pair of gloves when a uniformed officer holds them out.

“Come on, Fraser, let’s get the bad guys,” he says, and I, of course, follow.

**Author's Note:**

> This poor old draft was supposed to be a much longer case fic in which Turnbull saves the day, since Paul Gross said that one of the episode ideas for season 5 revolved around Turnbull's love of cheese. But I decided to tack an ending on it, since I'll never be able to finish it the way I had planned because 1) the idea is gone, and B) this is not my style of writing anymore. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it, warts and all. :)


End file.
